


The Criminal's Corpse

by cccahill18



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 06:04:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cccahill18/pseuds/cccahill18
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A BBC Sherlock adaptation of the ACD canon story "The Adventure of the Abbey Grange"</p>
<p>Please note that due to my lack of satisfaction with the story thus far, significant changes are in the works!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Criminal's Corpse

There was nothing, John mused as his head finally hit the pillow, that could honestly feel better than sleeping at this moment. He'd known full well that it was a bad decision last night to stay up and flip through early morning telly following his nightmare, after scrubbing the kitchen down after a rather nasty failed experiment of Sherlock's involving warming pig kidneys in the microwave and with a 12-hour shift in front of him. But, with the wakefulness brought on by the adrenaline from the dream and caffeine from his tea, sleep lost its appeal.

Now, though, he found it hard to fathom how he ever believed such a thing possible.

“John?”

It seemed to John that he was only in his bed for a few minutes when he saw Sherlock standing in the doorway, a near silhouette from the hallway light. He groaned and turned over to face his alarm clock, which only made him groan again.

“What is it?” John propped himself up, but didn’t move to get out of bed just yet. If this was for something stupid like a pen or tea, he might throttle his flatmate then and there.

“Lestrade texted. Apparently there’s a friend of his that requested us specifically.”

“Couldn’t wait until morning?” He meant it half-heartedly, however, and John knew that Sherlock knew it. He stretched and pushed his legs off the bed.

“Technically speaking, it is morning.”

“Well, I’d at least like the sun to be up, git.”

“It will be by the time we get there.”

John turned from where he stood by his dresser, trying to discern which shirt was the least wrinkled.

“Where the bloody hell does this friend live?” 

“Manchester.” The cuffs on Sherlock’s coat suddenly seemed to fascinate the detective.

“‘Course it is. You’re buying coffee, and I don’t happen to care that nothing’s open—just find some.” John could have sworn he saw Sherlock smiling, happy and surprised, for a brief moment, but he thought it must have been a trick of the dim light. Sherlock must know him well enough by now to realize that he would have to drag John much farther than Manchester to get him genuinely upset.

“Just be ready by half-two. I’ll catch you up on the way there.” Sherlock shouted the last bit as he made his way back downstairs, leaving the shadows in John’s bedroom empty once again.

“Should I pack a bag?” John yelled from the top step, buttoning up his shirt as he crossed the room. He saw Sherlock’s head pop in from the sitting room at the foot of the stairs, looking horrified.

“Honestly, John. Barely a two. Lestrade’s calling in a favour.”

John smirked.

“And what favour would this be?” The way that Sherlock glared at him was enough to set John laughing, and he dropped the subject to get back to dressing.

xxx

The sky just barely lightened to pink when John turned from the countryside passing by to the contemplative friend by his side. Sherlock had been staring off into space for at least the last hour (after John nearly force-fed one of the prepackaged muffins available on their train into him), and John wondered if he remembered at all that he was supposed to fill him in on the details of the case. Knowing Sherlock’s habits relating to retaining information, it was entirely possible that that passed through the sieve. If this particular case was ‘barely a two,’ however, he couldn’t imagine what he could be thinking about.

“Sherlock?” A moment passed.

“Hmm?”

“The case?” A few more moments.

“Oh. Are we there?”

“Still an hour out. But it would be nice to know what’s going on when we got there.” He began to wonder if Sherlock had already tuned out of the conversation when suddenly he snapped to awareness, faced John, and started rattling off the facts.

“Eustace Brackenstall was found dead last night in his kitchen by his wife. A burglary gone wrong—apparently the family were supposed to have all gone to a poker night at a friend’s, but Brackenstall and his daughter cancelled at the last minute. According to this acquaintance of Lestrade’s, Brackenstall seemed to have walked in on the burglars during the act, and fell victim to the effects of a large meat tenderiser. Likely panicked. The girl—can’t recall the name, irrelevant—came downstairs to find her father dead and strange looking men carrying off a host of electronics. They tied her to a chair—perhaps they regretted their earlier panic, maybe they have a weird sense of chivalry, hard to say yet—and left with what they had, likely fearing discovery from any other family members they hadn’t expected. Wife comes home to find her daughter passed out from shock and her husband dead, and immediately calls for the police.” His rapid-fire speech done, Sherlock fell back into his former pose, eyes staring away at nothing and acting like he had never said a word.

“Do they have any—” John stopped at Sherlock’s annoyed grunt, and thinking that he should be lucky enough to get the information that he already had in Sherlock’s current mood, got up to get himself another cup of coffee from the train’s poor excuse of a snack bar.

“Black, two sugars,” Sherlock blurted as if John had actually asked.

John looked back from the main aisle and smiled as he shook his head. Sherlock would notice what was convenient to him when he felt like it, and if John was to be honest with himself, he was glad that more often than not, he fell under that radar, even if only for brief snatches of time.

xxx

The Brackenstall residence, along with the other middle-class homes surrounding it, had seen better days. Peeling paint and brown strips of lawn were common, but the residents at least attempted to keep things tidy. The address the cab dropped them off at would have blended in well had it not been for the obviously new Mercedes situated behind the patrol cars. John tried to meet eyes with Sherlock, but he dispassionately looked forward, saying nothing.

A moment later, after paying the cabby (Sherlock having jumped out the second the car stopped), John walked over to where his friend now stood, rattling off something likely relating to the case. The poor man, whom John could only guess was the friend of Lestrade’s, was maybe an entire head shorter than Sherlock, and at the minimum five years younger, but instead of seeming intimidated by the taller man’s annoyed and condescending demeanor, he actually looked excited.

“—honestly, you’d think the car would be something to mention. Not terribly surprising, though, coming from someone who calls himself a friend of Les—”

“But that’s why we’re lucky to have you here, you see. You’ve no idea how thrilled I was, when I heard you were friends with Greg! I’m a big fan, and whenever he’d come up to visit, he’d always tell me about you, and I’d—oh!” John felt the excitable, little (now that he was standing with the other two men, he could see the man was a few inches shorter than he was) man finally noticing his presence.

“You’re John Watson, aren’t you? You must be, you look just like your pictures on your blog, and in the papers. Can’t tell you how thrilled I am to meet you—” He squeezed John’s hand with more enthusiasm than he certainly would have liked, but he managed to plaster on what he hoped was an earnest smile. Sherlock, he could see, wasn’t even trying. “War hero, medical angel—”

“What—”

“And, of course, dedicated partner to the famous Sherlock Holmes. Really, you’re nearly as fascinating as he is, by association.” It took John a moment for it to sink in that this man really had no idea that what he said sounded like an insult.

“And of course, I mean ‘partner’ in a completely platonic, work-related way. Because everything’s about the work, isn’t that what he says?”

“Well, we are supposedly here because of a murder, correct? Or did Lestrade tell me to come simply to meet the fanclub?”

“I haven’t been able to get that started yet, unfortunately, but I’m hoping that this—”

John, surprised it took this long for Sherlock to lose his patience, followed his friend’s stride away from the far too-fanatical-for real-life policeman, giving a quick wave and strained smile behind him. Both fairly useless acts, he discovered, as the man seemed to think they implied an invitation to follow. The thought that this man might be in charge of the investigation made John blanche.

“Is he—”

“No. I’d be in a cab back to the first train that could get us to London. Just a DC.” John looked behind him again to see the apparent DC get detained in conversation by another officer and look longingly back at himself and Sherlock.

“I thought you were being exceedingly patient.”

“I owe Lestrade a favor. Which has very nearly been repaid in full. We shouldn’t be here much longer.”

“Coming all this way up? I’d hope we’d stay more than 10 minutes.” The mere thought of the amount of sleep he hadn’t had was enough to make his bones feel heavy. “But I can’t blame you, he’s a bit . . . much.” 

Sherlock snorted. “I’ll just blame you and that ridiculous blog of yours. None of this would be happening if you didn’t feel the need to sensationalize cases for fanboys like him to harp on about.” 

John rolled his eyes. Irritation currently radiated off from Sherlock, but the reasons he gave weren’t new. John also had a feeling his friend secretly loved the praise he got from his blog and the commenters, but would never admit it to himself, let alone anyone else. Not to say that he didn’t agree that some of the attention they got lately was bothersome and bordering on invasive. But, the benefits outweighed the cons. He heartily believed that Sherlock’s talents were worthy of praise, even more so when he realised that during most of Sherlock’s life, praise was seldom given. And while John was well-aware that his friend could be an ass on his best days; it didn’t negate the fact that his detective work bordered on miraculous—and if what he did helped others, then that was even better. Fantastic, really.

“Seems like it might be better to blame Greg this time around. Who is this guy, anyway?”

“Lestrade’s brother-in-law, Sam or Steve or something like that—and hopefully not our problem for much longer.” They went through the open door into the house, and it immediately struck John that the car outside wasn’t the only sign of a recent influx of cash. Empty spots that he could only imagine were the recent locations of the stolen electronics littered the sitting room, but even disregarding the theft, there were scattered pieces throughout. A new looking iPod model charging (or maybe iPhone, John really wasn’t sure about the physical differences between the two from a distance), an extensive collection of video games, and a watch looking far more expensive than his own sitting on the coffee table. He could just barely see the kitchen through a small crowd at the doorway at the far end of the room, and followed Sherlock towards it.

Several moments and a few confused and disgruntled police and techs later, and he actually felt slightly nauseous at the thought of Mrs. Brackenstall finding the man like this. The photographs laying nearby of the daughter looked nearly as gruesome, as if she fought back against her attacker before passing out. Eustace Brackenstall himself had been bludgeoned at least several times, and John could only assume the weapon of choice (or convenience, more likely) was a heavy meat tenderiser which lay inside the cabinet under the sink, covered with a rather copious amount of mostly congealed blood and specks of bone. John looked to Sherlock to see what he made of it and internally hid a groan as the too-friendly DC whose name more than likely started with an “S” finally made his way into the kitchen as well.

xxx

“You know, that really wasn’t necessary.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Sherlock purposely looked out the window and avoided eye contact.

“You made Stan break down in front of his coworkers, for God’s sake. He looked up to you, even if he was incredibly obnoxious.”

“He shouldn’t.”

John shook his head. “You got us kicked off the crime scene.”

“The favor has been repaid. Lestrade should be satisfied.” John couldn’t really see how Sherlock making Greg’s brother-in-law cry at a crime scene was really going to be repaying him for anything, but his logic and Sherlock’s didn’t usually match up. “The case was still dull. He practically owes me now.”

“Not to mention me for buying the bloody train tickets.” 

Sherlock waved it off like it was nothing—and likely for him, it was. John didn’t know what all the sources of Sherlock’s income were, but with his high-price suits which he never thought twice about ruining on a chase, or the mentality that it was completely fine to take a cab wherever he went in London -- there had to be cash coming in from somewhere. Mycroft, maybe, and John briefly wished he could afford to think the same, but really that would just mean the two of them would be out on the street no matter what funds Sherlock acquired. John took care of the economical thinking for the pair—which made it seem like they were an old married couple, and John promptly squashed that line of thought.

“No, more a waste of time. Obviously the family’s come into money—and recently, otherwise they’d be out of that neighborhood already. Daughter’s statement says a man came in when they weren’t supposed to be home. Another one of the neighbors seems to be jealous of their rise in fortune, their overt display of wealth that mocks those around them, and then overhears that the family is going to be gone. Break in gone wrong that also accounts for the very personal method of death. Should be easy enough for them to find out who the murderer is—stealth doesn’t seem to be a strong suit of his.”

“So just as you thought, then.” The simplicity of everything grated on John’s nerves. He’d drop everything and go with Sherlock on a case like this morning, but when Sherlock knew beforehand that there really wasn’t a point to it, he couldn’t help but feel slightly frustrated. “Isn’t this something you could have handled over the phone?”

“Don’t look like that. If I’d left without you, you’d have been crosser that I didn’t tell you. Besides, the company is appreciated,” Sherlock said.

John felt himself go from annoyed to actually flattered. Sherlock could lay down niceties when the need suited him, and unless he didn’t feel like sitting next to a disgruntled flatmate for the rest of the trip, John could see no real motivation for manipulation. “Well. Thanks. You’re probably right.”

“Of course I’m right.”

They passed a short time in amicable silence, the train rolling along down the tracks a soothing background noise, sun shining in through the window, and John could feel himself nodding off and saw no reason to fight it anymore.

xxx

When John felt a nudge at his side an indeterminable time later, he could only imagine they’d finally arrived home, and that an actually bed was not that far off. The sensation of contentment was augmented by his current position, and it took him a sleepy moment before he realized what exactly that was.

He blinked and opened his eyes to see Sherlock looking down at him, looking more amused than anything. John sat up quickly and felt slightly irked at the loss of warmth at his side, and then felt irked again at the thought.

“We’re in London, then?”

Sherlock shifted his eyes back to the phone in his hands, facial muscles shifting to a look of serious inquisition. “Nearly.” He paused. “Just got a text from Stan.”

“Is he suing you for emotional damages?”

“No. He’s begging for help. Apparently they’ve interviewed the neighbors and no one seems to have any idea about it. He says all the alibis check out for all of the men that could possibly fit the daughter’s description, though he’s never been a popular man among them. He’s missing something.”

“And what if he’s not? What if there was someone else involved that was angry with Brackenstall? Someone from work, maybe? A relative?”

John could see what he could only assume was unease fall on his friend: a tightening of his brow, a tension as he sat straighter in his seat.

“Do we know where the family gained their money from?” Sherlock scowled more, and John would have felt bad if he didn’t think there was a possibility he might be able to inspire something. Sherlock seemed to ignore him completely, and fell into another contemplative mood, though much more antsy than he had been on the train earlier in the day. He drummed his fingers against the armrest in the middle, and John had the urge to just throw his own hand down on top of them to settle him down. He had delayed thoughts of why that might be a bad idea—and his own hand ended up resting on his thigh and staying there. It was tempting to simply watch Sherlock fill the space next to him, however. Tense, nearly vibrating body with a brain ticking away as fast as his fingers. Mesmerizing.

“John?” Sherlock snapped from his reverie just as quickly as he’d sunk into it; it took John a moment to catch up. Sherlock’s fingers had moved up from the armrest to meet those of his other hand under his chin.

“Hmm?”

“Do you have any plans for the evening?”

“Seems like I do now.” He smiled. “I got a nap in and obviously we’re not done.”

“I need to talk with the daughter. Seems like I’ve been making some dangerous assumptions.”

“You’re only human.”

“Unfortunately,” Sherlock sighed.

“You’ll figure it out.”

John settled back into his seat for whatever rest he could get, leaning against the window this time.

xxx

Two naps, a train transfer, and a few more pre-packaged muffins later, and John stood behind the glass of a police interrogation room, praying that Sherlock wouldn’t muck up this conversation-- he started to wonder if it really was the best idea to let him in alone with his history of emotional insensitivity. The young Brackenstall, Mary Fraser, was the stepdaughter of Eustace Brackenstall. She was currently biting a fingernail and glaring at the table in front of her. Her limp blonde hair crowded her her face as if to hide the dark bruises splayed across it. John stood next to Stan, who was much quieter this time around. He had to respect him. The poor man looked insanely uncomfortable, never quite meeting Sherlock or John’s eye, but he had called them back after his humiliation session earlier for the sake of the case. Even if his personality lacked anything that might make you want to be in his presence for more than ten minute stretches, he had the good sense of just wanting to do the right thing. Though John was not the one who had verbally attacked him, he still couldn’t help feeling guilty he hadn’t acted more positively towards the man who seemed to hold him in almost as high regard as Sherlock himself. He knew what that felt like, and he nearly started up conversation to apologize to the still-jittery Stan when Sherlock began to speak beyond the glass.

“Ms. Fraser. How long have you and your mother been living with Eustace?”

Having the conversation actually start seemed to act as a boost of confidence for the girl (only seventeen, John saw as he looked down at the file in front of him), and her thoroughly-chewed hand moved down to her lap and her eyes darted straight to Sherlock’s.

“Too long.” Though John could only see Sherlock’s back, he could imagine the expression he must have made. “One year in May.”

“Before or after he seemed to acquire a great deal of money?”

“That money belongs to me and my mother,” she said with a great deal of fire. John’s mind started whirling, and Sherlock’s must have been a thousand kilometers ahead of that.

“You didn’t like him.” She paused.

“No, I—no. It was just me and Mum, and that was enough. We got an inheritance from her aunt in Australia, and we finally had a chance to get on well, and we didn’t really need him around.”

“So he never hurt you?”

Both rooms silenced, and John could see Stan out of the corner of his eye start biting his own fingernails.

“No. Not Mum neither. I just . . .” She paused, one hand unconsciously picking at the ends of her hair. “I’m just a regular teenager, you know? Didn’t want anyone else around.”

“Alright.” Sherlock didn’t seem to buy it, but John couldn’t be sure what the others thought about his apparent agreement. “So tell me about what happened last night.”

“I already told the police everything.”

“I’m not the police.”

“I think I’m done here. I went through a trauma last night, alright?” She stared down at the table again, and John could sense the distress coming off in waves.

“That’s enough!” John hadn’t noticed the woman who had entered the room he and Stan were in at some point during the conversation. If he had to guess, though, he’d say she was certainly Mary’s mother, Mrs. Brackenstall. Same dark blonde hair and premature worry lines.

Mrs. Brackenstall barged into the interrogation room despite Stan’s flappings and hugged her daughter. “We’re leaving. She doesn’t need you going after her, poor thing. She told the police what she knows—now we’re going home.”

They were walking towards the door when Sherlock spoke up again. “No requests to find out about who killed your husband?” Mary glared before calming herself, but Mrs. Brackenstall looked furious.

“Of course, but my priority right now is my daughter, understand? She’s still alive and I need to take care of her.” And then they were gone, out of the room and soon out of the station.

Stan looked over at John. “You don’t think—”

“I don’t think anything.” He saw the DC’s face drop once again. “We can’t assume anything yet. But thank you for calling us back, Stan. I’m really sorry about what happened earlier—you didn’t deserve that, you’re just trying to do your job.”

“I know I can be a right pain to work with, Dr. Watson, they talk about me all the time here.”

“It’s fine, Stan. And just call me John. You’re eager, and we could use a lot more people like you around. Sherlock can just be--” He tried to think of the proper word. “Abrasive. He really does appreciate what you did.” A little exaggeration couldn’t hurt.

“I really do. Yes. Exactly what John said.” Sherlock came to stand with him, and John could see the fake smile plastered on his face. However, he was fairly certain he was the only one there who knew it for what it really was.

“Oh! Well!” Stan’s smile was childlike in its sudden enthusiasm. “Just doing my job, you know Mr. Holmes! And don’t worry about earlier—I can’t imagine the stress you must be under, always solving all these mysteries. Dealing with such awful things all the time.” He trailed off to almost a whisper, and looked back to the room where Mary and her mother had just been. “Do you –do you think they did it?”

John glanced at Sherlock, feeling his stomach sink. He had an inkling for once they may be on the same page about this, and he couldn’t have hated it more. Sherlock held a blank expression, and John waited for the words to come.

“Unlikely.”

John was going to blurt something out, but Stan beat him to it, luckily.

“Really?”

Sherlock nodded and looked straight at Stan, avoiding John’s gaze. “Mary’s right. Her dislike was nothing but teenage defiance. And nothing from the mother about any problems, hmm? It should be natural for her to be concerned about her daughter—she could have lost her too. Right now she’s the one person she has left. It would be unnatural to have her worries lie elsewhere.” He turned to John. “Right?”

John held back a smile. “Yeah. Right. Would be completely different signs.”

“That’s fantastic! Really! Seems like some great women who’ve just been through so much. Should I just keep talking with the neighbors, then? Coworkers?”

“That sounds a fantastic idea.” Sherlock paused and recovered. “Stan. I’d work on the co-workers. I know how thorough a job you did with the neighbors.” It took all John could muster to keep a straight face.

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes! Really! Just glad to do what I can. You really think it was someone from his business, then?”

“Certain of it. Office gossip can be nasty, you know.”

“Obviously. Can’t imagine why I didn’t think of it. I’ll go—go get on that then!” He shook their hands and turned to leave. “I can’t thank you enough. I’ll text if I have any other questions?”

“Of course.” Sherlock’s smile made it look like his face was going to crack, and the relief on his face looked immense once Stan was finally gone.

“Well.” John found he finally could smile now. Sherlock just turned to walk out, and John followed, not speaking again until they were outside in the twilight and away from the ears of the police. “You lied.”

A more genuine smile, now. Smaller and less for show. “Obviously.”

“Which one of them was it, though? The mother or daughter?”

“If confronted, I imagine each would attempt to take the blame. Motive’s fairly equal. If I had to theorize about the breaking point, though, I’d say he finally started acting violent towards Mary. Whether it was her who wouldn’t allow it or the mother watching her husband finally go too far, I’m not certain.”

John felt himself go more solemn as the real issue pressed upon him. “What do we do now?”

“I think it’s time for a private chat with Mary and—did you get the name of the mother?”

John pulled out his notebook. “Terry.”

“Time for a chat with Mary and Terry.”

xxx

The hotel that the two were spending the night at was nothing special, but certainly better than the neighborhood they had left behind. Another false smile at the reception desk and John and Sherlock were on their way to room 318, and a short rap on the door from Sherlock had them once again face to face with what was left of the Brackenstall’s. The woman greeting them, for one, did not seem pleased to see them.

“We have nothing more to say to you.” Mary stood behind her, further back in the room, fear leeching off of her.

“You don’t need to. You just need to listen. I’ve told the police it wasn’t you—” Sherlock gestured to the both of them, “—and now you need to do your part and not do anything stupid. That act at the station—”

“And what makes you think you can tell us what to do?” Mary Fraser made her way directly beside her mother, and looked just as vivid as when she’d first been questioned. Sherlock genuinely looked puzzled.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were so keen on prison,” he spat, looking genuinely offended now.

“We didn’t need him and we don’t need you! We don’t owe you anything—”

“Mary, please.” There was no force behind it, though, and the woman had visibly started shaking.

“Terry. Mary.” John internally cringed at the rhyme contrasting with the seriousness of the occasion. “You’re right. You don’t owe us anything. We just wanted to let you know to be careful. No one is coming after you.” Terry appeared to calm a little, but Mary didn’t seem appeased.

“I don’t trust you.”

Sherlock, standing rigidly beside him, seemed ready to throw in another snarky comment before John cut him off. “Alright. We’re leaving, okay? Stay low and stay safe, that’s just advice. You said your aunt’s from Australia? Couldn’t hurt to go there, anywhere. You don’t have to, though. It’s your choice.” John could still see the anger in Mary’s eyes at his attempts, and wished there was more he could say to put her at ease. “We’re leaving now.” He paused before hurriedly pulling out his notebook and jotting down a name and number. “Here’s how to contact someone who might be able to help you, alright? They work with women who are vic—who have been in situations like yours.” He gave the paper to Terry, who seemed ready to cry, and Mary promptly slammed the door.

xxx

The two men were quiet until they were back on the train, once again beginning their trip in darkness. Sherlock pouted, and John just felt guilty. Finally, once the train got to a good speed, he sighed. “You know, I am proud of what you did today.”

“It was stupid,” Sherlock angrily retorted, not evening looking at John.

“Honestly, I was the one who should have known better.” John sighed again. “It’s a sensitive situation, and we shouldn’t have barged in thinking we were heroes. I shouldn’t have gotten as caught up in the moment. They’ve been hurt, and what they don’t need is another man thinking that he can do whatever he wants with them.”

“Well obviously that’s not what we were doing.”

“They didn’t know that, though—and why shouldn’t they think so?” John was silent for a moment. “I meant it when I said I was proud of you, though. You didn’t have to do that.”

Sherlock shrugged. “The real criminal was already dead.” He slid back in his seat, bottom nearly off the edge. “Besides, it wouldn’t be a great court case, people stealing from themselves.”

“And how—”

“Saw the telly poking up from behind the bed.”

“Ah.” They were both quiet again for a bit, Sherlock looking still enough to be sleeping and John mindlessly watching the landscapes roll by.

“Why would Terry ever marry someone like Eustace Brackenstall?” Sherlock asked out of the blue, not opening his eyes nor changing position.

“I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t show his true colors until later. Maybe she was afraid. Unhealthy relationships can start in a number of different ways, and it’s not her fault. You can’t think of it like that.”

“Then why bother starting any?”

John frowned.

“People aren’t all like that, Sherlock. There are good ones out there. Some of them are just harder to find.”

“You’re one of them. I’ve figured that much out.” John’s frown deepened, and he looked over at his friend, whose position hadn’t changed at all, as if he hadn’t just said the nicest thing John had ever heard come out of him.

“Well. You are too.” He didn’t get a reply, but he didn’t really expect one. John was going to let himself fall back asleep while the happy fuzziness inside him lingered, but one more thing popped into his head.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“What happened with Lestrade to make you owe him?”

Sherlock visibly crinkled his nose, and John thought that was going to be the best answer he was going to get until he finally whispered, “He threatened to not give me any more cases.”

“Because . . .?”

Sherlock squirmed. “He may be in possession of a certain number of compromising photographs of me sleeping at Scotland Yard.”

“That’s it?” John was smiling, though.

“Isn’t that enough?” John could sense him thinking about what to say next. “He may have written ‘World’s Only Drooling Detective’ on my face.”

John couldn’t help but crack up laughing. “That’s the reason we came to Manchester to entertain his brother-in-law?”

“He was going to show Anderson! I have a reputation—John!” He was sitting up fully now.

“You’re right. Very serious business.” He managed a straight face for a total of five seconds before he started laughing again. Had he known about this in the morning, his reaction would have been markedly different, but with the case behind him, he couldn’t think of anything funnier. Sherlock seemed to soften a bit.

“You’re a git.”

“And you are too.” Laughter subsiding to a small grin, John finally made himself comfortable for one last nap.


End file.
